Red
by Thwack
Summary: Robin searches for a way to mend his broken heart through any means necessary.


**Red**

A Robin-Starfire FanFiction

By **Thwack **(formerly **Sympathique**)

* * *

It had started with the redheaded woman standing on the corner of Brooklyn and Pine. She was nothing striking; her legs would probably look shorter if they were not propped up on six inch stilettos and if her bubblegum pink, snakeskin textured skirt were a little longer. Her face was completely average. She had brown eyes and lips that were on the thinner side, but that were painted and puckered enough so that they looked bigger. Her makeup in its entirety looked befitting of a prostitute, which was fine. Too much rouge and too much eye shadow. Not enough personality, but that was also fine. Preferred. Her stomach was highlighted by the glow of the streetlight she was standing under, tanned and taught. Her spaghetti-strapped tank top was having difficulties constraining her chest. Her long fingers were absentmindedly rolling a portion of hair together. That was how he found her.

She was completely receptive to him. The expensive car and more expensive watch that he was wearing was enough for her. He looked like money. Walking and breathing money. A promising customer. She was not fazed when he presented her with a bottle of perfume and asked her to put it on. Nor was she offended when he requested that they perform the deed from behind. It was not uncommon. Some men found that way more stimulating. She had been in more uncomfortable positions. They decided on a cheap looking motel a block away from where she had been standing. He was a perfect gentleman, following her up the stairs and holding the door for her, asking whether she wanted some water or whether she minded that the room was so grimy. She certainly did not. He was an obvious newcomer to the trade. None of her other customers ever looked so nervous or so hesitant when they came to her.

He undressed slowly, unbuttoning his white collared shirt with deliberation and pulling his tie over his head. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. She took in his black hair, messy in front from where he kept running his hands through it. His bright blue eyes, beautiful and clear. His body when the clothes came off. She kept her questions to herself, especially the ones about the scars. They were everywhere, crisscrossing his stomach and back. Older ones and newer, too. They made him look weathered. Sharper. She appreciated his muscles, the way they bunched together in the back when he turned to take his shirt off, and the feel of them, when he finally came close enough for her to touch.

He took her against the headboard. She wrapped her fingers around the metal bars and held them close to her chest as he repeatedly thrust into her. He was good. His hands, calloused and rough against her bare skin, wandered across her body unhurriedly, touching and arousing. One inched lower, past her navel and into tender flesh and she moaned in pleasure, contracting as he stroked and played. She never turned her head to look at him, and he never opened his eyes once they started. She could feel him sometimes, leaning into her hair and inhaling the smell of that perfume, burying his nose into the red and nuzzling. She would snake an arm around his neck and pull him closer, the sensation of his own hair tickling. It was completely silent in the room, save for their heavy breathing and moans. When he finally climaxed inside her, he whispered a name into her ear and shuddered.

She was taken aback when he left her. One moment he was flush against her, stomach muscles warming her spine and breath loud in her ear, and in another he was gone, pushing himself off the bed and moving towards his bundle of clothes on the floor. She thought that he was going to gather himself together and keep walking, out through the door and into the night. Instead, he crawled back onto the bed after fishing and handed her a fortune, more money than she had ever held in her life. She looked up at him, holding the cash against her naked breasts, and he looked back. "For the rest of the night," he explained.

* * *

It sort of snowballed after that. Sometimes she would see him cruising the streets and sometimes he would choose her again as a companion, but not always. The red hair that had attracted him at first was not a sustaining factor, since she had seen him once or twice approaching other women, some brown-haired and others blonde. She never witnessed his private meetings with the other girls. She never saw the red wig that he would ask them to wear, or the purple costume that he would sometimes bring along. His lowest point was when he brought green-colored contacts and bronzer in a large duffle bag and asked her, in the straightforward and civil way that she had grown accustomed to, to please put them on. She would, always. There was something about him that commanded authority, though he himself was always well-mannered and courteous. Maybe it was his face, always without a smile. Or just the hardness of his jaw and the way it would sometimes clench, a muscle ticking beneath his ears. She memorized his expressions. Knew his preferences and his moves. Became familiar with the jumbled of things he would sometimes say in the heat of the moment or the stillness of the night. "I'm so sorry…" was one of them. "Come back..." was another. The most common though, his favorite and most tenderly-spoken, was always, "Starfire."

* * *

**End**


End file.
